A Study in Role Reversals
by theskylarksings
Summary: An experiment in switcheroos. CHAPTER 1: Consulting Detective John Watson may have found himself a flatmate. An ex-druggie, violin prodigy, genius flatmate, that is.
_A bit of an experiment that gripped me and wouldn't let go. I own nothing, I am just a lowly fan. — Sky_

•••

"Molly, could you get me another slide, please?" John said without looking up from the microscope.

"Sure," she responded.

He was vaguely aware of her presence breezing past him. "And maybe some coffee while you're up?" he added as an afterthought.

"Okay," she said, flicking her ponytail over her shoulder with a toss of her head. The door shut with an echoing squeal-click. John winced. It had done that for about a week now, increasing in volume each time. He had come to expect it, but he still hadn't gotten used to it.

As the echo subsided, he heard footsteps from down the hall. Two sets. One was heavier and familiar, the other cat-like and precise. He looked up expectantly as the pair entered.

The first was Mike Stamford, which didn't really surprise him. He had recognized his tread from down the hall. But the younger man accompanying was a different puzzle. Pale, angular features and a mop of dark curls were accented by a long black coat, to a very intentional dramatic effect.

"Hello, Mike," John greeted pleasantly.

"Good to see you again," Mike said.

John shook his proffered hand. "Who's your friend?"

"Sherlock Holmes," said Mike, "meet Doctor John Watson."

"Nice to meet you, Sherlock," John said, sweeping the newcomer with his gaze. An interesting name for an interesting man. "Hello," the man replied. His posture screamed icy arrogance, but at the same time he was guarded, almost wary. Intelligent, then. But perhaps not intelligent enough, John mused, given his unimpressed glances between his scientific equipment and Mike's secret grin. Well, he could change that opinion quite quickly.

"How long have you been clean?" John asked conversationally, filling a pipette with three millilitres of fluid.

"You told him?" Sherlock questioned Mike sharply, anguish evident on his face.

"No," John said before Mike could respond. "He didn't tell me anything." He dropped a bit of fluid from the mouth of the pipette onto a waiting slide.

"Then how..." Sherlock trailed off, giving John a hard look.

John met his gaze steadily, a slight smile on his face, but didn't volunteer any information.

Just then Molly entered. "Here you are," she told John. "Sorry, it's a little cold."

"Don't worry about it," he waved off her self-depreciation. "Molly, meet Mike Stamford, an old friend," he paused long enough for an exchange of hellos, "and my new flatmate, Sherlock Holmes."

"I haven't said yes yet," Sherlock protested, apparently ignoring the fact that John knew he had come about the flat. "I haven't even seen the place!"

John sighed, abandoning his microscope for the moment to lock eyes with the younger man. "You don't care about the aesthetics of the flat," he pointed out, "only the functionality. You would have agreed regardless because your only other options are moving in with your well-to-do relatives – clearly undesirable considering you rather dislike them – or living on the streets, which you have done once before, and prefer not to repeat."

Sherlock looked confused, then intrigued. "Mike couldn't have told you all that."

"He didn't need to." John quirked a corner of his mouth. "It's not hard to see things when you know what to look for." The man frowned skeptically. "How can one learn such volume and depth of information from simply observing?"

John leaned back in his chair, pinning Sherlock with an unsettling look. "Is that a challenge?"

Sherlock met his gaze with a cold, unyielding stare of his own. "If that's how you choose to perceive it."

John nodded slowly before leaning forward just slightly. "Bloodshot eyes and trembling fingers say you're recovering from a drug addiction, probably cocaine given your habit of absently rubbing the inside of your left forearm. Your clothes reek of smoke but the tobacco stains on your fingers are faded. Likely you're hoping to ward off your withdrawal symptoms by reviving a long-dead nicotine habit.

"You're thin, almost malnourished, but that's due to your temperament rather than hardship. You're practical. You eat for survival rather than enjoyment. Thus, your attitude about the flat. However, your clothes are expensive and well-cared for. Obviously gifts, as you would never buy that for yourself. According to the starched hems and chemical smell of your shirt – perchloroethylene, I believe – it has recently been treated; more specifically, dry cleaned. You don't strike me as the dry cleaning sort, except perhaps with the coat, so the relatives had a hand in that, probably the same ones who gave it to you in the first place.

"So, recovering addict, practically minded, wealthy family.

"But perhaps most interesting of all is your intelligence. Your gaze is curious, restless. You could tell from a glance all about my instruments, but that isn't what tipped me off. Any science major could do that. No, you asked me to prove myself. Instead of immediately writing me off as a party trick, or becoming flustered, you wanted to evaluate my method."

John paused, allowing Sherlock to assess what he had said. "Did I meet your standards, Mr. Holmes?"

Sherlock stared, his face unreadable. After a moment, his posture straightened with decision. "How do you feel about the violin?"

"Hm?" John asked, caught off guard.

"I play the violin when I'm thinking. Will that bother you?"

A surreptitious check revealed a line of flat calluses on his fingers and an imprint under his chin. "With your level of skill, I doubt it will be a problem." Daily practice, for hours on end. How had he missed that?

Sherlock hesitated, then nodded. "It's settled then. We'll meet at, say, seven?"

"Seven it is," the doctor confirmed.

He took two steps towards the door before faltering. He pivoted toward John. "Er, what's the address?"

John hid a grin. "221B Baker Street. It's a really nice little place."

"Very well," he replied, sweeping out in his dramatic dark coat in an effort to recover some dignity. "I will meet you there." He pulled open the door, shooting an "Afternoon!" over his shoulder.

Before the door could squeal-click shut again John caught a glimpse of Molly's sympathetic smile. "Don't feel bad," she advised Sherlock. "He's always like that." Any response was cut off by the slamming of the door.

Mike chuckled. "Don't kill him, alright?" he said on his way out.

John smirked, picking up the pipette again. "No promises." After the room was emptied, he pulled his phone from his pocket and dialed. "Mrs. Hudson? I've got a bit of news."

•••

 _I'll be posting more role reversals as I think of them. If you have an idea, shoot it at me. Reviews are life!_


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